Stone Dead in Rio Vista

SPECIAL THANKS TO:

JOE LASUSKY

Thanks to:

David D’Arche (For the Title)

Dan Ruden

David R. Gottlieb

The Rio Vista Police Department

David Larsen

Loretta Larsen

Deborah Roden

Jolly Heshmaty

Gary Moss

Ann Starkie

Ella Ray Toscano

William Metzler

Wendy Manfredonia

Julie Shippen

J. Hajer

All characters portrayed in this novel are entirely fictitious. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

David Jenson wasn’t a good golfer, but he loved to play. Since moving to the Rio Vista Country Club, into one of the new, single-level houses that surrounded the eighteen hole course, he played up to six times a week. But only if the weather was pleasant. He was what is known as a ‘fair weather golfer.’

Generally, he would play golf with his wife, Lorna. Other times, he would participate in the competitions that some of the various men’s groups would organize. It was a good way to meet, and socialize, with the other residents of the Country Club.

David was an outgoing man. He liked a drink or two, and a good laugh in the company of his many buddies. Like very many of them, he’d moved the short distance from the Bay Area to retire, and was a US Army Vietnam Veteran, and a former salesman for a rubber manufacturer.

Not a tall man, about 5ft. 9in., balding, with a white goatee beard. The hair that remained was grey, just like the majority of the other Country Club residents.

Today, he was wearing a bright orange golf shirt, and similar colored cap, which didn’t really look good above his khaki, cargo shorts. He was a little overweight, which was surprising considering how little he ate, but was in generally good shape for a man of seventy years of age.

On this day, he was riding his own golf cart alone, playing golf with two pals who also rode their own carts. Finishing the ninth hole, which he’d unfortunately double bogeyed, scoring a six rather than a four, he informed his playing partners,

I’m going to take a leak, and grab a beer. I’ll see you on the 10th. Can I get you guys something? He asked them pleasantly, in his naturally loud voice.

The two friends conferred, and the smaller one, Joe, replied,

Okay, Dave. Get me a Vodka Coke, and Steve will have his usual Bloody Mary.

David took the opposite direction from his buddies and parked his cart outside the bar, that was situated between the ninth and eighteenth greens. 

The bar was fairly quiet with just a couple of customers that David knew, and some of the tables were occupied by people having lunch. David ordered the drinks from the bartender, Becky, telling her they were ‘to go,’  and to put them on his tab. While she made the drinks, he went to the restroom.

Returning to the bar, one of the patrons asked him how his round was going.

Oh, the usual, he laughed, in his distinctive chuckle. Hopefully the back nine will be better than the front. At least I’m bringing the other two down to my level.

David looked like he was chopping wood when he swung a golf club, and to make up for his slice, he always aimed left. This was very disconcerting to whoever he played with, as aiming left, made it seem as if he was going to put his ball through someone’s family room window. Watching this, hole after hole, made his playing partners think too much about his game, rather than their own. It invariably had a bad effect on them.

Putting the drinks in his top of the line golf cart, David headed toward the tenth tee. Nobody was in view on the eighteenth green, and he was out of sight of the bar when he was waved at. It was more of a signal for help rather than a greeting, and as David was a really friendly guy, and knew the person who was waving, he stopped.

Do you need something? Or did I do something wrong? He asked with a huge smile.

I just need you to help me move something, David. It will only take a second. Do you mind?

Whatever you need, David replied, getting out of his cart and heading toward the open door he was pointed to.

The door was to a back storage area for the banquet room, that connected to the bar/dining room that David had just left. It contained all of the extra tables and chairs that were sometimes needed.

I just need a hand getting this table out. It is so heavy, I just can’t move it by myself. It’s the 6ft. one, to the left as you go in.

Lets have a look at it, David answered pleasantly.

He turned to the left and saw the long table propped against the wall. He tried to lift if by himself and was shocked at the weight of it.

Jeez. This thing weighs a ton. I’m not surprised you need some help with it, but I can’t believe the golf club expected you to move it by yourself. Couldn’t they find someone to help you? He asked.

Before he could continue further, dearly hoping that the collapsible table didn’t need to be moved far, he was knocked over by a heavy blow to the right side of his temple.

What the hell! he managed to say, his right hand instinctively going to where he’d been hit by something.

He was hit some more, hard, and his hands couldn’t protect his skull. As he cowered from the onslaught, David could feel the sticky liquid of his own blood over his shattered hands and face. He couldn’t figure out what was happening. As he fell into a deep sleep, the continued blows felt like distant thuds that weren’t painful anymore. He was dying.

The biggest tragedy about David’s brutal murder was that he wasn’t the intended victim. That honor fell to one of his playing partners, Steve Collins.

CHAPTER 2

The killer was one of the servers in the golf club’s restaurant. Her name was Ginny, shortened from Virginia, but the only person who still called her by that name was her mother, and sometimes her father. She rarely visited her aging parents, much to their dismay, and didn’t invite them to her home either.

Ginny was not only bipolar, she was also OCD. On sneaking into her workplace earlier, she had desperately wanted to clean up the storage area, and now that blood was splattered everywhere, the feeling lingered.

‘Those lazy, good for nothing bitches do nothing around here,’ she mumbled to herself, referring to her fellow servers, as she removed the bloody, full apron. Using the clean side of the apron to wipe her hands, bare arms, and face, Ginny continued her one-way conversation.

‘If that little cow in the dining room comes to investigate the noise I just made, she’ll get the same treatment.’

Ginny eyed the golf club she’d put down before removing her apron. She didn’t play golf so didn’t know that it was actually a one iron. A golf club that is notoriously difficult to hit a golf ball with, but very effective in bashing someone about the head. She had found the club in a trash can several days prior, so it presumably hadn’t helped the owner’s golf game.

Ginny felt sticky and dirty. Although she still felt euphoric after killing the unfortunate David, she wanted to get home and shower, burn the clothing she was wearing, and get rid of the golf club.

Making sure the coast was clear, by looking into the banquet room and then outside toward the bar and the 18th green, Ginny dashed from the still open storage room door to her waiting golf cart. She had left a towel on the seat, along with another folded one on top of it, and she wrapped the folded towel around the blood-soaked apron and the golf club. She’d left the key in the ignition, so as soon as she pressed the accelerator she was moving away. Turning left into the adjacent car park, she could see the playing partners of David patiently waiting for him on the 10th tee.

‘Should have been you, Steve,’ she said as she drove away, unseen by the waiting golfers. ‘Maybe I’ll get you next time. It’s the least I can do for you getting me fired!’

That actually wasn’t true. Ginny was working her notice from the restaurant after being written up. She’d gotten into repeated arguments with the new Food and Beverage Manager, mainly about her schedule, but also about the other servers. Ginny was barely working now, but thought the reasons she was given for being fired were wrong. She was convinced it was certain customers and staff who had it in for her. Steve was one of those.

Ginny was a good server, always busy, whether she was at home or work. In her mind, there was always something that needed to be done, and she hated the other servers standing around, tapping away on their phones when they had customers. Ginny would do anything to help increase her tips, and although she was happily married, she would flirt like crazy.

Not an unattractive woman in her fifties, Ginny kept herself in shape at the gym and in the pool, so many of her ‘regulars’ enjoyed her attention. Steve was a ‘regular’. He had fully participated in the flirting, but after he complimented Ginny on her breasts and legs, he then backed away from a private meeting. He even said he would report Ginny to the management.

Ginny was furious at the pot bellied Steve, especially as she’d let him touch her sometimes, when no one was looking. Now she was having to find another job when she’d worked at the golf restaurant for the last four years. Ever since she and her husband had moved into the community, she’d been employed there. It was her home and she resented being forced out.

‘Should have been you, Steve,’ she repeated, ‘you always stop after nine holes and I was waiting for your fat ass. You had that nice guy buy your drink, you cheap shit, and you get me fired! I hope you goddamn realize that it should be you who’s dead!’

No one noticed Ginny in her golf cart. So many of the residents used them that they were almost invisible. She was home within minutes, burning her clothes in the fire pit and bleaching the cart.  She was still exhilarated as she showered and scrubbed her skin. The way she was feeling, her husband was going to be in for a nice surprise when he got home.

CHAPTER 3

Rio Vista is situated south of Sacramento, California, and lies on the Sacramento River. A small town, half of its population is provided by the residents of the country club, who are all over the age of 55. The gated community is a very quiet neighborhood, even though it’s classed as an active one, with many pastimes, apart from golf, to interest its residents.

Despite its aging populace, Rio Vista doesn’t have a doctor, an urgent care, or a hospital. The nearest medical care is in Fairfield, which is over twenty miles away, or in Lodi, which is even further. Yet the majority of the residents love the country club life. The few that leave, do so mainly because they want to live closer to their families. Death in the community is a regular occurrence, but usually of natural causes.

This was a very pleasant spring day in this part of California. It was warming up considerably, and Becky expected that most of the golfers would choose to drink outside once they finished their eighteen holes. Becky herself was also leaving the golf club, but of her own violation. She was going to return to her previous position in a nearby restaurant, as that felt more like home to her. She had only left it because it had closed down for a period, and the new owners wanted her back.

Hey Steve, greeted Becky, What can I get you? A Bloody Mary, or do you want a beer?

No thanks. Actually, David Jenson got me one a few minutes ago but he’s disappeared. The drinks are in his cart but have you seen him? asked Steve, who was looking around the small restaurant for his friend.

He didn’t come back after taking the drinks out, replied the seemingly unconcerned Becky, as she placed washed glasses from the dishwasher behind the bar. Did you check the restroom outside?

There were two restrooms adjacent to the banquet storage room.

Yeah, as I came past. I even checked the women’s. You sure he didn’t come back inside?

If he did I didn’t see him. Hey, Annabelle, Becky called out to the much younger server, who was bussing a now empty table. Have you seen David Jenson?

Annabelle looked around. She was dressed in the same uniform of black pants and a black polo shirt as Becky, but had a little more weight than the bartender, and her black tied-up hair contrasted with Becky’s short blonde cut. Annabelle, as is the norm in the restaurant trade, was a fairly new employee.

Who’s he? She asked.

He came in a few minutes ago. I think he was wearing an orange shirt, he bought some drinks, used the restroom, then he came back and took the drinks outside. Becky explained.

No, I don’t think so, answered the unconcerned Annabelle, as she wiped down the table.

Maybe you should look in the restroom, Steve. Perhaps he’s got a stomach bug or something and had to use the bathroom again, offered Becky with a smile.

I suppose, grumbled Steve. He shuffled off, his white golf shoes leaving clumps of grass on the restaurant carpet, and his red golf shirt seemed to be struggling to contain his ample stomach.

He’s not in there, he declared loudly on returning moments later.

Well, maybe you missed him, Becky answered. Let’s look outside. She stepped out of the bar as Steve approached, and led them both outside. As they walked towards the patio by the storage room, she could see the drinks she’d previously poured for David, untouched in a golf cart.

Is that David’s golf cart? She asked.

Yes, it is. Where the hell has he gone? Steve stood by David’s cart, looking around with a totally perplexed look on his unshaved face.

Becky was also now puzzled, and also a little apprehensive. She was well aware of various residents falling over sometimes, and even though David seemed to be in good health, well, you just never know. She looked around at the nearby green turf, dearly hoping to not see a prone David.

Relieved, Becky happened to glance over at the storage room and noticed the door wasn’t latched. She immediately thought that Annabelle must have been in there and left it open, as Becky had closed the bar last night and had checked the door on her rounds. These kids, she thought to herself, are so irresponsible these days.

To close the door properly, you had to step inside the storage room to access the latch, and then return outside via one of the banquet room’s fire doors.

Stepping from strong sunlight into the dark room, Becky didn’t notice anything at first with her eyes, but she knew she’d stepped into something.

Oh come on, Annabelle, you could at least have mopped up after yourself, Becky complained to herself, stepping back outside and opening the door wide to see what had been spilled.

Her scream alerted everyone within a 100-yard radius that something really serious had happened.

CHAPTER 4

Everybody it seemed, came running. The new general manager, the new chef, the half-dozen remaining lunch customers, the sous chef, Annabelle, the golf shop employee, golfers, and even folk from the adjacent social club.

Becky was being consoled by anyone who could get near her. She’d been encouraged to sit down at one of the patio tables that was out of sight of the storage room. She was shivering, ashen-faced, and felt sick to her stomach. Her consolers, apart from wanting to hold one of her hands, or give her a hug, were also curious to hear about what she’d found. Although both doors to the storage room were now open, nobody was getting too close.

Simon, the manager, couldn’t believe it. Since recently taking over, it had been one thing after another. On his first day at work, he learned that the chef had abruptly quit the Friday before his Monday start. Following instructions from the corporate office in L.A., he had to give Ginny her notice just days later. Becky was leaving. The sous chef had recently been arrested for drug possession and was now on bail. He was also very weird. Annabelle and the other servers bitched to him every time he passed their way, usually about each other, or the food and beverage manager, or the customers. He’d found a new chef and a new bartender. The chef had already started, and the bartender was a returning barkeep. The golf course was a mess, and yet corporate was wanting him to cut costs on its upkeep. The resident golfers were all complaining to him because the green fees were being increased. Now, one of the residents was lying dead in a storage room, probably murdered.

Any chance of getting some service? Shouted someone from the direction of the bar.

Simon looked toward the source, a look of contempt on his forty something unshaved face. Although it wasn’t hot, beads of sweat were running down his totally shaved head, dampening the collar of his yellow polo shirt.

I just need a couple of beers, and maybe a hot dog, explained the golfer. We’re just making the turn.

Simon stared him down. He couldn’t believe that the golfer was showing no interest in the hubbub just yards away from him. He was dressed in the customary golf shirt, shorts, white golf shoes, and baseball cap, an anxious look on his face. He was probably worried that the next group would jump ahead of his own on the tenth tee. Simon could tell from the man’s apparent age that he wasn’t a resident. He only looked to be in his thirties, and probably wouldn’t really care about the apparent murder, until he’d finished his round.

Annabelle? Simon asked in a slightly raised voice to garner her attention. Will you go and see to him.

Annabelle had seen and heard the golfer and chosen to ignore him. She was the complainer-in-chief as far as staff members go, even though she was a more recent employee, and had been informing one of her lunch customers that David was her favorite customer. Which wasn’t true. Normally, she accused David of spreading gossip. Neglecting the fact that it was gossip that originated from herself.

What do you need? Annabelle asked a little rudely, after leading the customer into the bar.

I’ll have a couple of Bud’s and two hot dogs if you have them, he replied, looking at the beers on tap.

You want them to go?

Yeah. So what’s going on out there? He asked curiously.

Annabelle didn’t think the guy was that concerned, nor did she think he was particularly pleasant to look at. His clothing was worn and creased, and he smelled of tobacco. Annabelle smoked weed, but she hated the smell of cigarettes.

A resident has been killed, Annabelle told him, as she poured the beer into plastic cups.

You’re kidding me! he replied, glancing over his shoulder.

No. Why do you think everyone is upset? That will be nineteen dollars, she told him, putting the beers on the counter in front of him. I’ll just go and get your hot dogs from the kitchen.

Nobody else was in the room as Annabelle headed to the kitchen, and she wondered what she was missing outside. The hot dogs had been pre-cooked and were in a warming drawer.

Well that’s one less complainer, declared the very weird sous chef, Pat, who’d just returned to the kitchen